


like real people do

by ourseparatedcities



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, The Ache in Your Legs Footy Ficathon, soft angst?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 23:47:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3097058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourseparatedcities/pseuds/ourseparatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stevie calls Xabi to explain why he's leaving. Xabi wonders how Stevie could think he doesn't already know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like real people do

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt, "Something about Xabi reacting to the Stevie transfer rumours."   
> Also because it's the end of an era.

You pretend not to know why so he can explain it to you.

He botches it the first time.

“It’s just time, y’kno?”

Clearly he doesn’t, any more than you do.

He calls later and his voice is the red of the home jersey and his breathing is a locker room and you think you would’ve bent and broken all your bones just to fit inside of him. You would diminish yourself, but you think, what will remain for him to love?

That’s important.

“I’m getting old.”

You laugh in his ear.

“I’m tired.”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

You won’t spare him this, for his sake.

“It used to be a miracle. A stunner, yeah, but fated. Stars aligning, destiny and all that drama. The longer I’m here, the more it just feels like a fluke.”

There it is, you think.

You tried, you really did. You gave it a fair shot, an honest one. In Lisbon, you flung your arms into the air and raced across the pitch until your lungs ached and your cheeks burned and you could hear your pulse pounding in your ears and the trophy was just as heavy in your hands afterward.

A firefly. It fit neatly inside a jar.

History. A statistic.

Istanbul, an inferno. Set your soul alight. Consumed you whole until even your ashes danced.  

You left for Bayern. You’re a man searching for a matchstick when what you really want is a lightning strike.

“It won’t be the same.”

You figure it’s only polite to share your hard-earned wisdom.

“Yeah.”

You want to tell him that ghosts can cross oceans, that he’ll drag Istanbul and Liverpool and you all the way to LA. You want to tell him that the weather was shit, the food bland, the city grim but you loved it all because they were his. You only know how to fall in love with things you’ve seen through his eyes.

You want to tell him that you could do it, you know, book a ticket, find a hotel, walk on the sand, wait for him forever. He could carry you with him as a person, not a memory. LA wouldn’t be hard to love. You could see him in the sunlight. You could see him smile until his eyes crinkle and know you made it happen. You could touch his hand and feel his heart.

You could look at his face and be in Istanbul again.  

You _could_.

“I’ll come back for a home game, in February, March, whenever you want.”

“And then the ten year anniversary.” He sounds exhausted.

“Of course for that.”

You hear Lou in the background, noisily demanding attention.

You’re both still terrible at goodbyes.

“We’ll both be visitors soon,” he mutters.

You want to cup his face in your hands and kiss his frown, wipe it away with your mouth.

“Never you, Stevie. Captain’s privileges.”

He makes some noise that isn’t a laugh, but at least he tried.

“I gotta go.”

“Okay.”

Your finger’s on the dial when you call his name.

“Yeah?”

“It wasn’t a fluke. It was you. Captain Fantastic.”

He’s silent for a long time.

“It was Liverpool.”

It’s one and the same, you think, and contracts have nothing to do with it.

“Wear red to the press conference.”

“I always do.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I started out writing this at my default hardcore angst level and then somewhere along the way, I just wanted them to have something else, something more. So here we are. If you leave comments, you're a darling sugarplum.


End file.
